


The Inventor and the Beast

by Lene3161



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Beauty and the Beast AU, F/M, Fae Silva, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mild Angst, Silva as Gaston
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-04-12 04:48:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19124908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lene3161/pseuds/Lene3161
Summary: Q wasn't sure what he expected when he took his father's place as the Beast's captive, but it definitely wasn't a grand wedding and a handsome lord. Granted, the journey to his happy ending was tiresome, but he wouldn't have it any other way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I blended parts of the original Beauty and the Beast story with the Disney version. In the original version, Beauty’s father is a wealthy merchant who lost all his ships in a storm. She also has two older sisters who whinge about being poor while Beauty doesn’t.
> 
> 'Petticoats' in the 18th century is used to mean an underskirt AND the skirt of a dress. But the skirt of a dress is called the topmost/outer petticoat. When people in the 18th century say 'skirt', they mean the bottom part of men's coats where they flare out.

Eve harshly scrubbed the pot with a scowl on her face. But then again, she always had a scowl on her face these days. Q supposed the joy had been starved out of her by the bevy of chores in the house. He set down the plate he had finished washing and picked up a dirty bowl. The pot Eve was trying to wear down with her strength and dishcloth was already quite clean, but he didn’t point it out.

 

“Say it,” she snapped.

 

Q fumbled and nearly dropped the bowl. Righting himself, he asked “Say what?” They had been cleaning the remains of dinner side by side in the scullery for the past quarter of an hour in awkward silence, owing to the spectacular blow-up at the dining table earlier.

 

“How I shouldn’t torment poor Papa so, and how he did his best. That’s what you want to say, don’t you?” She dunked the pot in the washtub, splashing a great deal of water on her apron. Q’s hair was also splattered by the dirty liquid, but he bit his tongue so he wouldn’t reproach her.

 

“Whatever should I scold you for when you are already punishing yourself?” he replied with a pointed glance at the still-submerged pot. With a growl, she yanked it out and put it on the lowest storage shelf. This time, Q got a lot more than his hair soaked. He felt the wetness on his crotch, and he was certain only his apron protected Eve’s eyes from seeing his skin through his worn shirt.

 

Q’s fingers clenched hard on his bowl as he resisted the urge to lob it at her head.

 

 _Calm down, Q,_ he thought. _Someone has to be the sensible one here and it certainly isn’t Miss Whiny and Mister Despair._

 

With a frustrated sigh, he slowly loosened his tight grip and said “Eve, be reasonable now. The storm happened, the ships are lost, our money is gone. Accept it and move on, instead of whinging endlessly about the reversal in our fortunes to Papa.”

 

 _“Whinging?”_ Eve shrieked. “ _You_ don’t know what poverty looks like, Q! Have you ever shivered in a cold garret, the fire never quite warming you enough? Have you ever felt your stomach eat itself into smallness in hunger? Have you ever had to choose between new shoes and this week’s rent? Tell me, Q, do you know how terrible our lives will be from now on?” Eve burst into tears, crouched, and buried her face in her petticoats.

 

Q froze. Eve was right. Q had grown in a large, comfortable house in London with his own bedroom and even a personal study cum laboratory. He’d had toys and books and an unlimited supply of hot meals. He had never considered just how terrifying their lack of money would be to Eve, who had seen and gone through it firsthand.

 

Q sat down beside his adopted sister and hugged her close. “It’s alright,” he murmured. “It won’t be that bad, Eve. We have enough food, and-”

 

“But we won’t soon. Papa's savings has run dry, and none of us knows how to farm. What if we don't harvest enough for ourselves next year and starve?" Eve made an angry punching motion with her fist. "Why did he move us into the countryside in the first place instead of doing the sensible thing and staying in the city?”

 

“Would you rather people point at you constantly and say ‘Hey, that’s Bankrupt Boothroyd’s girl!’? You know that’s what would happen if we stayed.” Q rubbed his sister’s back soothingly.

 

“People are already doing that here. We might as well have stayed in London, at least then both you and Father would have a job and I wouldn’t have to farm.”

 

“True. Not very smart of Papa, wasn’t it?” Their father, Geoffrey Boothroyd, thought he could at least spare the family the ignominy of being a laughingstock in town by moving away, but he underestimated how far word spread of his wealth.

 

“You’d think I’d be used to this,” Eve mumbled. “It’s not like I haven’t gone through it before.”

 

Q grimaced, remembering how Eve came to be his sister. Eve’s birth father Jonathan Moneypenny had been a wealthy gentleman, living off the interest on his savings in the bank. He could have bought an estate and join the ranks of the landed gentry, but he chose to live in the city. His wife, Jane Moneypenny, had been the daughter of a widowed merchant who had fallen on hard times because of a bad investment. It was a love match that set tongues wagging at the eccentricity of the groom and the large disparity of wealth. Until Eve was eight, they led a happy, prosperous life. Disaster struck when Jonathan died in a boating accident. His property was entailed to a distant cousin who refused to have anything to do with them. Fortunately, Jane still had the four-percent interest from her dowry.

 

Eve and her mother had lived on forty pounds a year. Jane’s father had died when Eve was three with only two-hundred pounds to his name, so Jane had no help from him. They moved into a somewhat run-down part of town where Jane worked for a dressmaker. Unhappy with the hours and her pay, she opted to open a small tavern using the two-hundred pounds Jane got from her father and half her dowry. The venture made a decent profit, until Richard Collins worked as cook.

 

Collins turned out to have typhus and spread the illness to every diner. The tavern was closed down by the authorities and Jane lost money. It sent Jane on a deep depression and they lived off of her now-reduced dowry interest for two years. They had to live on twenty pounds a year, not nearly enough for two people. The stress caused Jane to get consumption and die. Eve had been eleven at the time.

 

Eve was tossed out by the uncaring landlady. She wandered the streets for three days until she passed by Q’s home. Seven-year-old Q had been out playing in a corner of the garden. Wanting a friend, he invited Eve in. The two children spent the afternoon playing with dolls.

 

Eve had asked Q why a boy like him had been allowed dolls.

 

“They aren’t actually mine,” Q replied while changing Miss Wells’ shoes. “They were Mamma’s. She collected them in her dollhouses and doesn’t mind me playing with them sometimes. But then she died of lockjaw five months ago, and Father wouldn’t let me, so I go here to play in secret. No one can see us here, but we can see people at the gate.”

 

“My mamma died too,” Eve said. “She didn’t have these, though.”

 

“Is that why you look dirty? Your mamma isn’t there to clean and dress you?”

 

“It’s because the landlady threw me out three days ago.”

 

Q twisted his tiny face in outrage. “I’ll ask Father to let you stay here and be my new sister.”

 

“You want me to be your sister?” Eve asked, shocked.

 

“Yes.”

 

Eve knew Geoffrey only indulged Q because his mother died recently, but they eventually became fond of each other and Eve was formally adopted into the Boothroyd family at twelve years old. The rest was history.

 

Q jerked out of his memories when Eve said “I’ve been such a prat, haven’t I?”

 

“Yes. But I understand why.” It seems all Eve needed was a shouting session and a good cry before her senses returned to her. Q was relieved as he was getting tired of keeping the peace in the house.

 

“I need to apologise to Papa.”

 

“You do. You also need to wash the dishes properly.”

 

Eve snorted, and they started laughing. They finished the dishes while joking around, and Q felt the weight of the tension from the last two months lift fromhis shoulders. _We’re alright,_ Q thought. _We’ll be alright. We may be poor now, but we won’t starve or freeze and we have each other._

 

That night, as Q got ready for bed in his room, he heard Eve and Papa in the master bedroom talk cordially for the first time since the ships are lost. Smiling, he changed into his nightgown and went to bed.

 

Unknown to Q, one of the Fae had taken an interest in him and had plans for him.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stays in the 18th century are spiral-laced: they use only one single cord. Modern corsets have two laces. 18th century stays aren't meant to constrict the waist as much as Victorian ones, they create an upright posture and the shoulder straps position your shoulders down and back. They also create a flat fronted torso and support the bust. The stays give back support, so women can do heavy lifting too - just think of carrying buckets from a well, they're heavy and maids in strapless stays can do it. Some strapped stays make your shoulder blades nearly touch.
> 
> Children are put into stays at very young ages(http://www3.gettysburg.edu/~tshannon/341/sites/Childhood/Daily%20Life.htm) Boys stop wearing it at 7, girls keep wearing it the rest of their lives. The shoulder straps make your shoulders slant until adulthood. 18th-century parenting practices seems wack to modern eyes, but we need to understand that parents thought they were doing their best for their children then. The form is just different.
> 
> I have Boothroyd and Jane not put their children in stays-probably unrealistic, but as there was a craze for 'classicalness' in dress starting in 1775, I'm taking artistic license and write them as subscribers to this ideal, even though this story is set earlier, 1750s-60s I guess when fashion was really opulent. I apologize in advance for the butchering of fashion history. 
> 
> When you lace by yourself, you start from the top as you need to support your assets, or you lace from the front(most stays are laced in front and back, a precursor to the Victorian split busk at the front). But since Eve has Q lace her stays, he starts from the bottom.
> 
> 18th century underwear is a shift and stays, along with panniers or pocket hoops if you wear a robe a la francaise; a small pad on your arse for robe a la anglaise. Of course, that's only for middle to upper class ladies. Working women go without skirt supports. No knickers or drawers were worn-you only need to lift your petticoats and fun times would be had by all. But considering that underwear was open-crotch until like the early 20th century I doubt it made a difference. Pockets are bags you tie around your waist - they weren't yet sewn into garments. Women cut slits into their petticoats so they could reach for their possessions. 
> 
> Bedjacket in the 18th century doesn't mean nightwear, but a type of simple top that is a staple among working class women.
> 
> Situation in 18th century context means job. It's still used in the Victorian era.
> 
> And 'fashionable hours' and country hours are way different, though I never did find the exact times. The wealthy Londoners could afford candles to light the night, so they stay up late and rise late. The poor rely more on natural light, so they sleep early and rise early.
> 
> Now that my overly long and somewhat incomplete lecture on 18th century foundation garments, terminology and timekeeping is over; on with the chapter.

"Q?" Q heard Eve's voice, followed by a knock on his door. "Q, wake up. I need your help."

 

Q ignored Eve, still trying to wake up properly. He really should get up soon, laying in bed would do him no favours to his wakefulness. He heard his sister growl before the door flew open.

 

"For God's sake, Q,  _get up_. I need your help to lace my stays!" She marched over to the window and yanked the shutters open, flooding Q's room with the morning sunlight.

 

"Ask Papa. And don't blaspheme," Q replied, covering his face with a pillow.

 

"Absolutely not." Eve marched up to Q's bed and yanked the pillow off of him. She ignored Q's protests and drew the blankets away. 

 

"We've been here two months. Shouldn't you be used to waking up early by now?" 

 

"It’s not the hours that bother me, it’s waking up in the first place.”

 

”Oh poor, poor Quintavius, having to get up and start the day. Now help me dress!”

 

”Yes, Your Majesty; your favourite lady-in-waiting is here to serve you.” Q rolled out of bed and went to stand behind Eve. She was only in her chemise, pockets, and a red hemp petticoat with her unlaced stays hanging off her torso. There was another petticoat in her hands, also of hemp, but brown instead of red. He started to lace her stays from the bottom up with the linen cord.

 

"You've fallen out of my favour with your ghastly attitude, my annoying servant. I suggest you find another situation soon." Eve replied as snootily as she could.

 

"But if I did, who will bring Your Majesty breakfast in bed? Who will brush Your Majesty's hair, and keep Your Majesty's gowns clean?" Q tried to make his voice higher in imitation of a lady's maid, but only succeeded in sounding like a lapdog that had protested being step on.

 

"You sound like my violin the first few days I learned the notes, Q," Eve said.

 

"Is my voice so monstrous?" Q asked, tying the lace in a knot and tucking it into the top of Eve's stays.

 

"What's this about monstrous voi - ack! Eve, close the door! And why are you in your undergarments in front of your brother? It's  _indecent_!" their father complained, turning his back on them. "Learn to lace your stays yourself, Eve."

 

"Why would I, Papa, when I have my most loyal servant here?" Eve gestured to Q. She started pulling her outer petticoat on.

 

"Your poor victim of tyranny, you mean." 

 

"Oh, hush," Eve replied, tying her outer petticoat around her waist. Now she only needed her bedgown to be fully dressed.

 

"If you are done bickering, we have our repast to consume," their father said. 

 

"You cooked, Papa?" Q asked incredulously.

 

"Oh, it's not as though we can do a better job of it, Q - none of us have any practical domestic skills at all," Eve replied, smiling at their father. That was a complete and utter lie - Eve was the most accomplished needlewoman the men in her family had ever seen.

 

"The toast may be a bit black," their father admitted with a grimace. "I have no idea if the eggs are fully cooked, and the bacon seems more like bricks."

 

"We'll eat it. Food is food." Q eagerly went downstairs. He didn't notice the look his father and sister exchanged. He was always the picky eater in the family, pointing out  the most trivial flaws in food. It was disconcerting to hear the change in him. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Q's cheeks were hurting from smiling. Beside him, Eve was exchanging small talk with every single person she saw. He didn't contribute much to conversations, simply soaking in the bustle of life. He never realized how dour his moods have been until he went into the village. They had only spent a month of summer in the village while waiting for the purchase of the farm to be finalised, but it was enough time for them to remember the names and faces of most of the villagers. Since the farm was some distance away from the village as they couldn't afford anything closer, they had lived separated from any company beside their own and the farm work contributed to their isolation. No wonder Eve was pecking at Papa so much and he felt like he wanted to run screaming into the woods; they needed a change of scenery.

 

"How is your father, Mister Q?" Mary, the woman who Eve was talking to, asked. "Why didn't he come with you?"

 

"No, Miss Mary," he replied. "He went back to bed after breakfast - we had a tiring night, you see." She blushed. Behind her, her friends giggled. Eve sent him a sympathetic smile. As they had gone down in status, most of the village, who addressed each other except for the priest and village fop without titles, called them by name. Some, however, still treated them more formally because of their 'fancy manners', as he once overheard a man whisper to his wife. He knew most of the village took no small amount of pleasure from treating fallen 'fancy folk' like they would any other person. It was understandable, considering just how the different classes were treated, but it can be somewhat annoying. And poor Mary had a crush on him, but she didn't know about his leanings. He felt bad, as he couldn't actually tell her outright, given that the loss in his status meant that he didn't have the protection of wealth and rank should it be known he preferred men.

 

"What a pity, Mister Boothroyd," a smooth voice interrupted them. "Is your new life wearing down on your family?" A tanned man, richly dressed in an impeccable cream wool coat, brown silk brocade waistcoat, tight breeches and clocked silk stockings approached them. He was wide of jaw and shoulders, with a somewhat crooked nose and large pale eyes. Though his calves were fashionably defined, his shoulders didn't have the sloping shape that was thought to be handsome. He had a broad, friendly smile, but his eyes were empty of emotion.

 

 _Silva_. Q could feel his expression freezing into a pleasant, welcoming look. The month he spent in the village had been filled with the damned fopdoodle's constant pestering. Eve didn't bother with any politeness - she looked like God's revenge against murder. The girls were now fawning over the village's wealthiest man and only luxuriously dressed dandy, but he brushed them off with a chuckle, like one would a small puppy nipping at the heels for attention.

 

"Hello, Mister Silva," Q said. "How are you this fine morning?" He never thought a simple greeting could be break-teeth words, but Raoul Silva kept being so  _him._

 

"Excellently, Mister Q - excellently." The repugnant man continued faux-beaming at him. There was something  _wrong_ with Silva. When Q asked the other villagers how he came to be so wealthy, he only got a shrug and a "Dunno, but 'e was always rich. 'E was former military tho'". No one, not even the elders, remembered when and why Silva chose to settle in the small provincial village, despite being wealthy enough for a place in Town or a grand estate. He was a very fine feather in the villagers' cap - they considered him the most amazing man to ever exist.

 

Q fished about for a topic of conversation. "How is Miss Severine?" Eve sent him a sharp look. Silva's mistress was never seen in the village; the only reason people knew she existed and how she looked like was the deliveries made by the foodsellers' errand boys. Whenever Silva got deep into his cups, he'll complain endlessly about her, yet he never turned her loose.

 

"She is doing well. Though I wonder why you asked, Mister Q - could you be infatuated with her?" The gathered women gasped and gave Q dirty looks. 

 

"No, though I'm sure she must be beautiful." Q internally groaned; by the evening talk of him wanting to marry her would spread about the village.

 

"Why does she never go out, Mister Silva?" Eve asked. All eyes turned to her. "I've heard people say she looks very melancholy. Is she very unhappy?"

 

"Oh, enough talk about her!" Mary interjected, looking pained. "Everyone knows the poor girl is mad. Say, Mister Silva - you should send her away and marry a proper woman. I know it mustn't be easy, caring for a lunatic like her."

 

Silva chuckled. "My dear, I cannot possibly leave her in hands of some stranger in an asylum. I shall do my best to care for her to the end of my days." The women sighed in unison, starry-eyed at such devotion.

 

The Captain Grand! He was lying through his teeth, Q was sure of it. Eve looked ready to give him a black eye. They were not so easily duped by Silva's habit of flashing the gentleman. 

 

"Mister Q! I've been waiting for you to come to the village!" A loud, cheerful voice called out. An old man, thin and stooped, with silvery hair, shuffled over to them on his cane. 

 

"Mister Thomas," Q said, smiling. Coby Thomas managed the village's library. It had been started by a charitable lord several decades ago who wanted to spread knowledge among the peasantry. Thomas had been chosen as librarian and given some training in teaching. He had helped some girls and boys aspiring to work in grand households find situations in other towns by teaching them their letters. Unfortunately for both the charitable lord and Thomas, the girls and boys were outliers, as most of the villagers saw little point in learning anything purely academic when all they could aspire to was farming, or the occasional apprenticeship given out by the village craftspeople. Thomas had thought Q a breath of fresh air, as he had so few people interested in the large stock of books he had.

 

"Come soon, will you, Mister Q? It's nice having someone to talk to about poetry and music," the man had implored. He handed Q a thick stack of books despite the rule forbidding more than two books per borrower, ignoring his protests. "I wish the blond lord is still around. People would pay a lot more attention to literature if he comes here occasionally like he used to do. But then again, maybe not - the womenfolk kept giggling over his eyes, making their men jealous. Blue as the sky or a cornflower, they say! _I_ think his jug-handle-ears are a far better thing to giggle about, ridiculous as they are."

 

Q had laughed and said he would try, as he didn't know how much time he would need to spend on the farm. Q had spent the past two months longing for the library, and using twilight to snatch glimpses of a book on agricultural practices. With a start, Q guiltily realised he wasn't even a quarter done with the book.

 

"Mister Silva, you know you shouldn't flirt so," Thomas gently scolded as he stood near them. "You're distracting them from their work!" The women only giggled in reply.

 

"Ah, Mister Thomas, you know I can never resist the beauty of the village women," Silva sighed dramatically. Said women blushed furiously. One unsuccessfully smothered a squeal.

 

Thomas sniffed. "A likely story. What were you talking about with Mister Q that has him so consternated?"

 

"Nothing at all, Mister Thomas." Q and Eve said simultaneously. "His infatuation for Severine, Mister Thomas." Silva chuckled at the same time.

 

Seeing Eve's fist balling up and Q's clenched jaw, Thomas hurriedly steered the conversation to safer waters. "Ah, you shouldn't pine over women, Mister Q. Books are just as interesting and much safer, if I say so. Speaking of which, I found this absolutely incredible book on clockmaking - would you like to go to the library to see it? Oh, of course you do, you love books! Good day to you, Mister Silva. Come along, Mister Q." With that the old man turned and shuffled in the direction of the library. Q and Eve tossed out a chilly goodbye to Silva and a much warmer one to the village women before following him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 18th century slang:  
> look like God's revenge against murder-look very angry  
> break-teeth words: words hard to pronounce  
> Captain Grand - a haughty blustering man  
> flash the gentleman-pretend to be a gentleman


End file.
